Conversations with Photographs
by JWAB
Summary: Our heroes reflect on the past, the fight to come, and each other. In the absence of any confidant apart from each other, they confess to photographs evoking the long, beloved departed.
1. Gram and Katrina

**Conversations with Photographs**

_Abbie draws a folded photograph out of her wallet and lays it out on the counter beside her coffee, tracing the sepia shape of a woman with the tip of her finger._

Oh Gram. You wouldn't have put up with any of this. You would have told Ichabod Crane to quit acting crazy. You would have made that charbroiled witch put on a whole dress. You knew real things from… what do I call them? Visions? Horrors?

"Quit makin' up stories," you would have said to Crane, and handed him a dish to wash.

But damn if it isn't all true, Gram.

I've been at this a while. Sure, Corbin trained me up good, but as far as reading people goes, I started out knowing how. I know a lie when it sits there on someone's face, bare and exposed – I can see it, plain as day. I suppose it's a gift, until I have to prove that their lie is a lie, and then comes the work. Because judges don't put much stock in "I can just tell."

But you know what I've never once seen on Crane's face? A lie. There isn't a lie there. His eyes are clear. He burns with conviction, his whole face does, like someone who needs to be believed because what else is there? Just like Jenny did. Still does.

Truth is just truth, Gram. When something happens, _it happens _and no matter how many lies you pile on top of it, it remains. No matter how much you wish the lie was real, no matter how much easier and more plausible and less painful the lie may be, the truth still throbs inside you, red and hot and true. I know. I tried it your way for a long, long time.

I've got to hand it to him: Crane could have lied, probably should have, but he never has. He's been braver than I ever was. Sure, for Luke he made up something expedient and believable because resurrection is a lot to swallow for someone who hasn't seen a demon or killed someone who by all rights should already be dead, but with me and Jenny? Crane is all truth, all the time. He could have denied the whole thing – climbing out of his own grave and the unkillable horseman and the wife in some unreachable dimension. He could have stayed silent, watching and listening at the station until a lie bubbled up out of other people's expectations. He could have put on some jeans and told everyone what we wanted to hear. It's not hard to do. I know. But he didn't.

There's something about him, Gram. Something… I don't know.

If you were here, you wouldn't have let me stay in Sleepy Hollow. Not for this. No, I'd be two weeks into the training program and totally demon free. I wouldn't be knee deep in biblical monsters and unfinished plots from the damn revolutionary war, assisted by a ridiculously tall, chivalrous, swashbuckling soldier. You would never have put up with all this nonsense.

Oh Gram, I wish it was. I wish it all was nonsense.

* * *

_Amid Sheriff Corbin's files, hidden away in the annex, Ichabod encounters a photograph marked April 1914. In the foreground a group of people stands, mostly women; their surnames are listed on the back. But it's not the faces that catch Ichabod's eye, nor the names. It is the tree behind them, a thick oak with one heavy branch growing out from the side, low enough to sit on._

Katrina, what have you done to me?

Our tree is gone now, my love. A new building occupies that field. A bank, I believe, or perhaps an inn for coffee - they are stunningly ubiquitous. A few of the buildings of our era still remain. A dishearteningly small number, I'm afraid.

But by the miracle of this photograph, our great oak still stands in the ether between my world and this one.

That low branch was thinner when I carefully lifted you onto it and placed a tentative first kiss on your lips. My heart was silent with anticipation, but you allowed it, thank heaven. You were so strong for such a young woman, so independent. You were fierce and intoxicating, embodying the revolutionary spirit of the age. I fell in love with you with a musket in my hand and General Washington's orders in my pocket.

What a secret you kept, Katrina. I blame myself in part. We courted too quickly and were married before you had the time or inclination to divulge the truth. I have to believe you would have told me of your witchcraft, eventually. And I assure you, I would have been proud to be loved by one so gifted. So powerful.

Still, I think we can agree that your plan to keep the horseman from rising was poor at best.

I died too young. All of us did, so many men, my friends and yours, your brothers, hundreds lying dead like a blanket upon the earth. It was tragic, but it was my death. It was my time.

If only you had bid me farewell in that smoke-filled valley. Instead, Katrina, you used me in my most vulnerable hour. You used my death to anchor the horseman to his grave. But that was folly, as we can see. By the same magic that bound him, I have now been removed from my peace and thrust into... something I can barely describe.

I realize that it was not you who called me back to life. You are imprisoned somewhere, some unreachable dimension I shudder to imagine. Nor did you intend for me to inhabit the future this way, a man out of time. The memories I hold from only days ago, memories of our home, of our street, the sound of gunpowder blasts, even this very tree – these are more real to me than anything in this new world. Ah, can you imagine how unsettling it is to see one's own world beneath this one, as if through a shroud?

Nothing feels real here, with the exception of Lieutenant Mills. She bears a deep well of strength, from what I have observed, that will serve her well as she comes to embrace this strange disruption of her life. I am lucky to have found her, and as you bear some responsibility for my predicament, I count you lucky as well.

Lieutenant Mills is a worthy comrade at arms. What good fortune that she stands by my side.


	2. Samuel

The lieutenant may be right, Samuel.

_The room is dark. Jolting patches of neon line the walls and a thrumming bass line devours the quieter words in the sparse conversation. When they sat down, Ichabod asked the bartender for whiskey but Abbie intervened, insisting upon "two Sam Adams."_

_Abbie has excused herself, leaving Ichabod momentarily alone at the bar._

I presume that she found it humorous offering me a beverage that was in fact your namesake, but I can't bring myself to laugh. And this - what they breezily call Boston Lager? Bitter swill, Samuel. It resembles cold piss more than the rich ales we drank. You would be horrified.

And this picture of you! It's a terrible rendering, Samuel. Your hair is entirely wrong – too short, too carefully coiffed. The deep purple scar you earned in the fight is absent. You were so proud of it. The redcoat at the end of your knife was duly punished, as I recall. You were proud of that as well.

I owe you an apology. It seems you were right, Katrina was not what she seemed. It is a long story, one that, if you can hear me at all, you likely already know. You urged me to confront her soon after we were married, or was it before? But I was stubborn in matters of the heart. I defended her honesty with vigor – I say vigor but you called me a mule. (Did you covet her? I suspected you loved her too, you know. How could anyone keep from loving her?) She was the most beautiful, most temperate, most perfect creature…. But no. You knew she was keeping something from me. And that behavior is far from perfect.

If only I could speak to you in the flesh, and not to this poor picture of you! I ache with her betrayal, Samuel. I love her still although I shouldn't. She languishes in purgatory. Can you believe it? She committed some unspeakable act – some _other _unspeakable act, which must come as no surprise to you, who would expect nothing less from her – and therefore resides there, imprisoned. But she won't say a word, won't share a single detail. Again. I kissed her when I saw her, I must confess. She is my wife! She _was_ my wife. What is she to me now? My betrayer? The cause of my distress, certainly. But somehow I find I am unable to condemn her fully, because I am indebted to her for this strange, difficult chapter I am now living.

How is it possible that I belong here, "in the here and now," as the lieutenant declares? I fear I never truly will. I have dozens of anonymous encounters every day, each more frustrating than the last, each demanding cultural knowledge I do not, and may never, possess. There is far too much to be learned, even for such a quick study as myself.

Ah, and Samuel, my friend, how low our cause has fallen! I can only assume the population is as fat and happy as they appear. They move about blankly, sealed in their vehicles, inured to the elements and to the tragedies of their fellow citizens. There is glaring inequality on every street corner but these people refuse to see it. It reminds me of their hospital: I had occasion to be treated, and despite my worsening condition, I felt no pain in their care. It was astonishing! Roomfuls of men, women, and one lost child, all dying from a plague, with nary a scream of agony. We were anesthetized, the entire lot of us. Imagine the possibilities! Surgery conducted carefully on a serene patient. Extreme bodily harm yielding not so much as a twinge or sting.

But no scientific advance is without its pitfalls. I fear their miraculous anesthetic has permeated their culture. The revolution apparently prevailed – thanks no doubt to your efforts – but subsequent generations let our fire turn to ash. And how we burned, didn't we, with righteous anger and the desire for freedom! For the right to determine our own destinies! It is not a faded memory; for me it is only the slightly-removed present, immediate as this morning's sunlight.

No, this era does not suit me at all.

The lieutenant was correct; a part of me wanted to remain with the lost colonists in Roanoke. (She is strikingly intuitive, Samuel. You would have enjoyed her immensely.) Seeing them, speaking with them… they were as removed from my own time as I am from hers, and yet their presence was overwhelmingly comforting. The dread I feel in this era eased. You remember (and perhaps this is vain, but it is nevertheless true): I was well educated, well trained, more capable than most. Noble upbringing and all. But here I am a curiosity, an oracle from the distant past. At times I suspect these people perceive me as more of a clown than a man. Even the lieutenant. And so I admit it; the thought of staying with the lost colonists was fleetingly seductive.

But our work has only just begun, and Samuel, as much conviction as I held in our efforts against the British, I hold now in my efforts with Lieutenant Mills against these dark forces. I trust her, as I trusted you, and I know that if she and I work together, we will prevail. Does that sound familiar? Was it you who cried those words on the hill that night before the end, rallying our growing band of compatriots, or was it I? No matter. Whichever it was, he was not wrong.

Cold piss, honestly. I refuse to drink this in deference to you, my friend.

Ah, kind sir. Whiskey, please.


	3. General Washington

It wasn't the pound that survived, it was the dollar. Not what I expected, General.

_Ichabod sinks into a low armchair at the Sheriff's cabin, a rustic enclosure removed just enough from modernity for it to feel like a haven. He stares at the change in his hand: copper pennies, shiny silver nickels, and paper money. On the top of the pile, General Washington's face stares placidly back at him._

What must you think, to represent one dollar on a page of paper money? Our inadequate currency, Continentals, were nearly worthless when last I laid eyes upon you. A fistful of them and a promise could purchase a pint of ale. That firebrand, your hot-headed Captain Hamilton railed against the monetary policy our fledgling Congress passed. When we learned the Continental Congress had devalued them forty to one, he rolled a pile of them together, lit them and smoked them like a Spaniard's cigar.

She assures me the value has stabilized. Two dollars and three dozen pennies buys a mug of coffee at the Starbucks Coffee House now residing where the livery was. Pennies with the short-haired profile of a President on them, according to the barmaid. Presidents on all the coins, I presume. A pale honor, I fear.

She… Lieutenant Mills. Miss Mills. She stopped dead in the street outside the police station, dug into her pocket and produced her bill fold, from which she drew five bills, each worth twenty dollars. "You should be getting paid," she mumbled, holding them out to me. "It's not much." I argued that one hundred dollars was far more than I deserved or needed. "Trust me, it's not gonna get you far. But it'll give you some independence."

She apologized with her eyes, I can only assume for my predicament here. Perhaps it was for what little she had to offer me. And she urged me, silently, to accept her offer.

My reasoning in rejecting her generosity sprang entirely from truth. She is a natural leader, as were you, General. As with your faithful troops, my welfare is of primary concern to her. I have want of nothing material. But this offering demonstrates once again that her sensitivity penetrates beyond the mundane. She could see – although I have taken great pains to hide it – that my dependence on her for every last item, down to each plastic-entombed tool, had begun to chafe. I felt more like a child with every purchase she made on my behalf.

This coffee is mild yet invigorating on such a frigid autumn afternoon. My first twenty-first century purchase. Starbucks is so ubiquitous a corporation that I could hardly avoid it. And I was eager to survey the inside of the erstwhile livery. As you can imagine, the building bears no hint of its former purpose.

I wonder, General, if perhaps… somehow… you peer through the time-clogged ether, every dollar a portal, and observe the country you carried through revolution to term. Do you watch every citizen, musing upon what this country has made of itself?

Or must I do this now, on your behalf?

General Washington, later President – how I wish I had lived to elect you! - presiding over the smallest denomination of dollars the country now offers. One hundred of you amount to "not much." The insult boils my blood. What you created – yes, what we all helped you to create, but without you we could never have accomplished it – was nothing short of a miracle. The notion that you are associated with such a negligible denomination is tantamount to blasphemy.

And yet, perhaps my perspective is too narrow. Surely your presence in every pocket means something. Surely your ubiquity as the fundamental denomination is more than symbolic. Perhaps this is not an insult. The dollar is as fundamental as a brick to a building, a broth to a soup, a mother to a child. You were the foundation of our revolution; perhaps it is only fitting that you remain the foundation of the country's currency.

The day I came under your command was one of the most fortunate of my life, General. I must admit, I have never been a leader myself. I've not seen this as a failing. The opposite, rather: my capacity to ally, to join with others in shared purpose and industry, remains one of my most cherished strengths. It is the same now, in my alliance with Lieutenant Mills. She is an effortless leader, welcoming of my every contribution. But unlike the military troops under your command, and the named and unnamed members of the army fighting against demons in our midst, Lieutenant Mills and I constitute the entirety of our side's personnel. Will we be enough?

There may be more. Captain Irving, derisive as he is at times, may yet prove to be an ally. The brotherhood of Masons – still active after these centuries, and thank the Great Architect for it – are working quietly for the right. And now we have the assistance of Miss Mills' sister Jenny, a freedom fighter if I've ever seen one.

And Katrina, somewhere. She found Miss Mills for me, to save me.

Would you have made the same choice? Or would you have braved the Beyond to bring the horseman to his end, then and there? The poison my brethren offered me may have been the best chance we will have in the fight. And yet, as Miss Mills so vehemently argued, there is always another way, and at her urging, I took it. I trust her implicitly, without reservation, as I trusted you. And I want to stay, to fight by her side. I want to finish the fight Cicero and Katrina drew me into moments and centuries ago.

Stunningly difficult, that goodbye to a person I had known only fleetingly. I can't entirely explain why. Perhaps it is a common experience, this bone-deep knowledge that you belong with someone. Perhaps it is not as desperately important as it feels. But when I breached propriety and called her Abbie, intimate as naked skin by candlelight, it was not a calculated decision. It was, very truly, my soul reaching for hers. "This is the first time you've called me Abbie," she said. She knew.

I wonder how Katrina felt when she heard me say it. For she must have heard me. I wonder what she made of that.

General Washington, how is it possible that you no longer exist as the hearty, stalwart man with a quill and a plan? It is cruel that I must settle for your poor representation on this flimsy scrap of paper.

And yet, I can keep this flimsy scrap with me, folded in my pocket. A talisman. Watch over me, General, as Katrina somehow does. Guide me. Guide us all.


	4. Heinrich and Samuel

_Special thanks go to CreepingMuse– recent discussions with her about this show and its characters bring all elements into focus and are more fun than should be allowed. Plus, her current Sleepy Hollow fic, **She and He**, is a rip-roaring great time and a deeply satisfying read. It is not to be missed, folks._

* * *

**Heinrich**

_Abbie curls her legs up on the couch and opens the attachment from Jessica, an old roommate who now (conveniently) works forensics for the NYPD. Staring back at her is a face she's never seen before._

Huh.

_She closes her laptop and rubs her eyes. She hasn't been sleeping enough lately. And maybe getting a mock-up off a photo of the skull was a bad idea. But after a slow sip of red wine from a small juice cup – she put the wine glasses on the top shelf when she moved in, had to stand on the counter to do it, but that just meant they'd always be too high to bother getting them down – she braces herself and opens her computer again. _

"_So great to hear from you! How's Luke? Still hot like fire? I know, I know… Anyway, this was fun! Had to guess on hair/eye/skin color, but you said he was a Hessian, right? German soldier from the Revolutionary War according to Wikipedia, so blond is a good bet. Blue eyes. Ruddy, not too pale skin. Looks a little like my brother…. Call me next time you're in the city, it's been way too long. Have fun with creepy Heinrich, J." _

Ain't no way you look this good. Not a chance.

What the hell were you doing in the middle of the American Revolution? Did you think you could just slide in unnoticed? Accomplish your evil to-do list and gallop on out of there? Sneaky bastard. You don't think they had enough to worry about without you making it worse?

You're a real piece of work.

What about the rest of your biblical posse? Are they Hessians, too? Maybe Crane and I should take a quick side trip to Germany, check out where y'all came from. Or does each of you come from a different continent? Australia? South America? Is one of you African? Yeah, right. I'll bet my paycheck every last galloping one of you is white as toilet paper.

But how did it work? I don't get it. How is it you can even be beheaded, if you're supernatural? Pretty sure you're not an actual demon, not like Moloch. You're too… real. I mean, you have a skull – a damn-near unbreakable skull, but still – and at some point, there was some meat on it. A face – this face, give or take. Crane must have seen it when he sliced your head off. I'm sure you were grinning like an asshole. Hell, you'd just killed yet another guy, woo-hoo. But this one... Sure, as far as you were concerned you had sliced open some tired fighter with a sword, but this one was Crane. You remember Crane, don't you? Tall, brilliant, open hearted? A battle scarred revolutionary trying to make this world a better place? Oh no, you couldn't let him get away with that, could you? You couldn't let someone like him stay alive. Do you win extra points when you mow down the best and brightest, or aren't you that picky?

But tell me: the original body, the one that was born with this face, was it always yours? Or did you hijack poor Heinrich, just some guy trying to be the best international mercenary he could be? It's got to be that. Can't imagine anyone would volunteer for this grisly job. Nope, you must've hijacked him, derailed the poor fucker just like you derailed this whole town, not to mention my plans for Quantico. You show up and everything goes sideways. Did Heinrich die inside that body, or did he watch in horror as you used him to destroy life after short, meaningless life?

My God, is he still watching?

_She drains the glass in one harsh mouthful. _

Fuck.

Here's something else I don't get. There are four of you? And you're the death guy. You're the one who, what? Shows up when people are dying anyway? Or are _going_ to die? Or you're just really damn good at killing people. Boy, you missed a couple of juicy centuries. I mean, Hiroshima? Two world wars, plus the extinction of native populations all over the planet. Countless local wars, disasters… The African slave trade, but you must've seen that back in the day. Bet you loved it. And there was just a typhoon, wiped out almost an entire country. But here you are, looking for your head when you could be gathering dying bodies. Priorities, man. It's not like you need your head to see, or hear, or load your rifle. Or make your sword really hot. How do you even do that?

And what about your pal with the black horse? Pestilence? How does that work, exactly? Does he run around like evil Santa, trying to get to every sick person in time, dropping disease bombs down chimneys and riding off to the next epidemic?

See, I've been reading up. Pretty lame how your jobs overlap. Must make for some bickering. I mean, does Pestilence get pissed when you kill a sick person? And what about Conquest and War? Really, you only need War, right? It's not like Conquest happens peacefully. You gotta update. Pestilence is still relevant, sure, but what about Car Accident? Drug Overdose? Environmental Catastrophe? Who gets to count those deaths? Seriously, get with the times, Heinrich.

_Abbie tips her wine bottle into her glass, but nothing's left._

You've got one ugly mug, Heinrich. I thought it might help, you know, seeing your face. Maybe it did. Maybe it will. But right now, all I care about is that you killed Corbin. And Crane. Underneath all the biblical end-of-the-world horseshit, you're just a plain old murderer, just like all those murderers and rapists and thieves I've got locked up downtown. Supernatural or not, you're a killer. It's what you do.

But guess what: I catch killers. I stop them. And I am _good_. Learned from the best. I am going to stop you because that is what _I _do.

* * *

**Samuel**

_The quiet bartender recognizes Ichabod with a faint grin. It is no surprise. He has been in town long enough, has encountered enough of the local denizens, that curious shock has given way in most cases to bemused familiarity. _That guy_, they murmur to each other, _the one I told you about._ And then, as often as not, _he always wears the same thing, doesn't he?

_Ichabod stops the bartender when he reaches for the amber whiskey he has ordered before. _No thank you, sir, but could I trouble you for a Samuel Adams brew? _The bartender shrugs and places one on the bar in front of him. Ichabod turns the bottle around in his long fingers so that the woefully inaccurate portrait of his old friend faces him._

It is a cruel arrangement that in order to talk with you, I must pay for this bitter swill.

No, your presence is no more corporeal now than moments ago, before I held this bottle. I could speak to your memory at any time. And yet, somehow this feels more… substantial.

Samuel, we have caught the horseman.

_He takes an ill-advised sip and shudders._

We have captured him, have chained him below the city. Underground, like the dead thing he is. He rages against the chains, unable to speak. Unable even to growl. His silence is deafening.

He knows, Samuel. He is brimming with the knowledge of what's to come. So help me God, I will extract it. And when I finish this bottle of piss, I intend to research a method to do it.

Captain Irving and I chained him up when he weakened under artificial sunlight. Another marvelous suggestion from Miss Mills. She continues to amaze, although she has a stunningly high tolerance for historical inaccuracy. You would think, wouldn't you, that the curator of a museum dedicated to the past would want its material to hew as near to fact as possible. But no. Can you believe Revere is remembered as a dentist? A dentist! With _his_ ragged grin? But the irony is ours to savor. You see, he engraved the key to the cypher in silver on the back of the horseman's teeth!

Ah, to return to my account. Once the horseman was well and truly detained, we stood in awe, we three – Lieutenant Mills, myself, and Captain Irving, who has seen the impossible with his own eyes and can no longer but fight with us. Our breath came fast and deep, as we stared into the void where the horseman's head should be. Then out of the silence came gunshots.

Lieutenant Mills shot six bullets with perfect aim into the horseman's heart. (She is honestly remarkable. You shared my admiration for the adept women with whom we toiled, as I recall. What power the lieutenant wields, and with such grace.) You see, the horseman had killed Miss Mills' mentor, a wise, paternal figure as described. Neither the captain nor I stirred, even after the rounds were spent. The horseman's chest seemed to absorb her bullets, as sand does rain. The proof shone: like his eerily persistent head, his body cannot be killed.

Captain Irving suggested that we might at least take him apart, piece by piece. Scatter the hellish morsels to the winds. Bury them far and wide. It is an excellent idea.

But not yet. He may indeed be contained, for now. I am not.

Samuel, I feel a rage brewing inside my heart so vast, so unimaginably gargantuan that I fear I may burst. And just as none could blame Miss Mills for her ultimately futile spray of ammunition, who can blame me for the hate that may soon erupt from within me? Who can judge the wrath of a man such as I, torn from an idyllic life of study and privilege and thrust by his own conscience and the twisted hand of fate into a war against veritable evil? Literally cut down in the prime of life by Death himself, only to be resurrected two hundred years hence, a man out of time, and charged as I am with such a weighty purpose? Who would dare condemn me for vengeance?

I will tear Death apart with my bare hands, I swear it.

Lieutenant Mills and I are called as witnesses. But Samuel, were we only to watch, perhaps eventually report, what good could that possibly do? The evil poised just beyond our sight would overflow this world like Noah's flood. And for our inaction, we would be complicit. No, we must not be mere witnesses. We must be heroes.


End file.
